


Love and Reason

by vallasan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Feels, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Retelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 07:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4868072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vallasan/pseuds/vallasan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My little vision of how this particular version of Solas and Lavellan (Eila) found one another and what they did and didn't do about it.  Just finding the joy of committing a headcanon into text - not trying to get it perfect, just to get it down and super-feelsy.  Happy to take comments and feedback and learn as we go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Reason

The floor of the darkened chamber was as cold as the capes of snow outside its single, bar-crossed window. Solas sat on a stool meant more for a milkmaid than a mage, overlooking an unconscious elf laying on a makeshift cot. They'd made no real considerations for the prisoner and nearly just as few for him, an Elven apostate in the eyes of the Chantry leadership, an unassuming soul who had turned up to offer his assistance with the results of what they were calling simply “The Breach.”

The skin of the prisoner had taken on a worryingly blue tone and every few moments, he glanced over to reassure himself that her chest was still rising and falling. To comfort himself that if it had to be, at least the magic had taken a strong one. Even if strength now had little to do with the final result. If this last attempt did not rouse her, there was not like to be another mage who could offer more than leave her to writhe or watch her mind batter about in her skull as pain, dehydration, and madness took her to the grave. It had been some time since Solas faced impossibilities, at least beyond those that were so present in his thoughts that they no longer needed naming.   As the Chantry guards watched him, he watched them back.  All of this was a game of instinct as much as it was of timing.  

If he let himself, he could slip into reverie, a close cousin to both memory and the vast oceans of the Fade. He could see the blood spilt, the first horror bloom and wither before his eyes and in half-seconds walk through the logic that had lead him to sit in this icy room next to a stranger. Her hand in his. He knew too much and nothing all at once. Yet, as he observed, some truths were evident. She was Dalish, an irony of birth that could not escape his notice. Her vallaslin were inked in white, their design indicating some connection to the Keeper of Secrets. Yet, those, too, felt pale. The markings he had seen on the those of the clans he visited, those intolerant fools, felt garish in comparison.

He found himself mildly curious about the subject under his care. There was a smudge of kohl on her eyes that was half-smeared away now and as her eyes watered beneath their lids, trails of half-shed tears leaked and ran down her cheeks, taking some of the paint away as they went. Being branded with the mark would cause the sort of suffering that drew tears unbidden, even as her spirit hunted fruitlessly for a path back through the Fade. Her lips bore some sort of wine-hued stain around their edges. Different that the Elven faces he had registered before. She was not a child, years of travelling out in the sun had freckled her forehead, and her hand was studded with callouses caused from both bow and blade. Younger than he, but that was hardly surprising. To find herself at the Conclave, he inferred, she had to have been trusted by her kind. She would have been of value to the elves. They would suffer in her absence. Solas shook his head, and let the thought waver in his mind until it felt factual, inert.

She was not, he noted, as the hours passed and the pulses contorted her face into grotesque, pain-wracked masks of itself, without a sort of beauty. Between the pulses, she was peaceful, and those masks fell away. It was harder to observe her then, knowing the unlikelihood of her full recovery, a recovery he nonetheless owed her. He peeled open the fist she had made, hearing a whimper of discomfort in her voice as he did so. His instinct now was that time was running out for the both of them. He stared down at her palm and rummaged once more through his considerable memory.

The four guards stood as sentinels in the cell's corners. They would tell him nothing about her, not beyond Cassandra's initial report, which was naught but a terse and threatening outline of facts. Of course, what could they say that would be of any use now?  

“Andraste's Tits, it's cold in here.” One of them, a well-fed human with watery eyes and a self-amused grin, called out to his fellow guard on the other side of the room.

Solas found himself rolling his own tired eyes, half-distracted when he least could abide it. Some shifts had been silent out of an odd reverence, a result of a story that was starting to pass from soldier to soldier, that her survival was brought about by their holy figure Andraste. Others, like this one, believed the murder of their high priestess and the very rending of the sky was the sole responsibility of this young woman. Either path was borne out of ignorance, but at least the believers, in their piety, were quiet.

“Go find another log for that miserable fire, then, if you dare letting Seeker Cassandra see you wander off your watch,” The first guard caught a glance from a second, a burly but generally stoic man, who twitched and shivered in his corner. He kept his hand on his pommel, however, and it was he that Cassandra had left instructions with. She had told them to watch them both, see to Solas' requests, and find her the moment he revived her. If that wasn't possible, what the next task would be had not been made clear. He knew what was intended, though, what options would be left.

“I think I'd rather shiver myself dead first. It'd be warmer.” Again they laughed at their own cleverness.

The first guard sneered and shifted his feet before turning, unexpectedly, towards Solas. “You'd best hurry and finish your work...mage. We'll have blades hot enough for that little murderer once you're through.” He glared up at him and the guard simmered back into himself, mumbling further filthy sentiments Solas pretended not to hear.

A thin-faced, hollow guard in the southern corner had been quiet until now. She piped up. “Can't you just set her toes alight, mage? Seems that would solve everything in one go.”

“Fenedhis.” He muttered to himself while they cackled amongst one another. But he could agree with them on one point. Something had to be done. He had wrongs that needed righting, starting with the prisoner. There was no time left to make whatever was left of the altered plan elegant.

“Well, lethallan, we shall try one last time.” He whispered and once again, he lay his palm against hers and spoke words meant to stitch the magic closed. This time, he tried to address not her, not the mark, but the power itself, to call it as a shepherd might guide a wayward flock to a new pasture. The mark did not respond, and his own weakness could do little more than pacify its hum. Its own hunger to heal. He pulled his arm back and watched the torn flesh throb ever so slightly, the light begin to dim.

For a brief moment, he gazed down at her, and in the same way, forgoing spells and forms, he willed her consciousness to draw close, to return back to its nest within her. His chest sunk. To lose all that was held within the prisoner...to fail once again. He shook his head, as he heard the unending song of screams once more, the sound of sealing, a far greater seam mended, a key turned and then thrown to the sea. A hot tear welled in the corner of his eye, but it did not, could not, spill. If the guards were watching any of this, they made no sound of it and Solas found himself setting her hand back at her side. There will be have to be another way. He could not linger here.

He leaned in and briefly whispered, “Ir abelas, da'len.”

Solas turned back in his seat and lay her hand back at her side. An image unbidden came to him, a red thread that came from nowhere and lead nowhere suddenly went taut. The motion was jarring enough that out of habit, he glanced back down at the elf. Something within the elven woman stirred, and under the guards' chatter, she wakened. Her eyes blinked and squinted, but showed no real recognition. He couldn't help but smile at her as finally lucidity crept into her frightened expression. Her eyes were green, bright, if bloodshot. “Call for Lady Cassandra. The prisoner has awoken.”

All four of the guards suddenly came to life as well. He stood up, backing away from the cot as they swarmed around her. He surprised all of them, including himself, by demanding irritably, “Will you not give her a moment?” The second guard narrowed his eyes in response.

“She killed the Divine and you want to coddle her? You find her pretty and you feel sorry for her? Well, too bad, mage, your little knife-ear will get what's coming to her.”

“Jerrik, calm yourself. There will be none of that now.” The first shook his head disapprovingly, but before Solas had a chance to respond, he was ushered towards the door that exited the cells. He looked back over his shoulder to see them hustling to bind her legs and set her upright on the floor for questioning.

“Get off me!” He heard the echo of her shout, feeling some relief that she looked to fight them more than fear them. It would serve her better.

He swallowed hard just before the hollow-faced guard nearly pushed him down the hallway. “She is alive.” He heard Cassandra's distinctive accent bark as she marched past him, this Sister Nightingale silently tracing her steps right behind her. They stopped briefly and the imposing, dark-haired warrior spun around to face him. “I must thank you, Solas, for raising her. There is much fighting below the Breach, and if we might press upon your aid once more, we could use your assistance. The dwarf, Varric, is there. If you would, find him and we shall meet you both there shortly.  ”

“And the prisoner, Lady Cassandra?”

Impatiently, she turned on her heel, and this Seeker Cassandra and her Shadow took strode past him and into holding cell, letting the door close firmly behind them as he heard the prisoner cry out with the first flaring of the Mark.

Once it was that a battle could clear his head. He did not wish to think of her eyes: just opened, squinting at the dim light, all confusion and pain, seeking anything to grab hold of, and for but a moment, finding him.

 

* * *

 

Eilatherial, Eila to the Lavellan clan, spat the ball of phlegm that settled in her throat in a divot in the stone block in front of her. She stared at it for a split-second.

“Mind your mouth. We'll cut your ears off if you try and run.”  There was an outright rage in his voice, but the fact that she was kneeling here, waiting with the rest of them for something to happen, rather undercut at least that particular source of her fear. 

She sighed and quietly muttered, “Where am I going to go?” She was careful not to add a crisp, cutting, shem to the question. She'd learned enough as a clan scout and spy, and enough time spent amongst the humans had made it blindingly clear that there was no good to be had from calling one that. Though it would dare a little freedom and a little freedom would feel damn good right now.

“Not one more word, Jerrik, or I'll...”

She glanced at her bound hand as a glowing spark that seemed to spring from her palm burst forth. A sharp tingling followed, and then, for a moment, her whole forearm throbbed with pain. She wished she could rub it or press it against herself to ease it, but the shackles made that impossible.  Every sound of hurt that escaped her throat was met with sneers and wry amusement.  Finally, the jabbering stopped and they retreated back into the shadows, drawing their blades in defense. In defense of what? Her? Chained to the floor as she was?

What in the hell had happened? The Keeper's report would certainly be delayed. Not that she had a single notion of what to tell her. No, she needed to get to her feet, kill this dizziness, and get out of this place. Then she could worry about why her hand held a green flame that did not burn her skin. 

The tall woman whose hair was short, and prettily decorated by a single circlet of braid, gestured to one of the guards. The other woman's gray hood covered half her face, but the one steely blue eye that Eila could see was fixated on her. “Get the prisoner some water.” _Oh, Creators, blessings upon this woman._ Eila hadn't realized how dry her throat was.

“No, Cassandra. We will have our answers first.”

_Rescind that blessing._

She could not recall any of it. Could it even be possible? Eila remembered hiding in the woods, making her way into servants' entrance, and given a job of filling the water jugs for other servants to carry in amongst the Conclave's guests. For better or worse, she knew enough of the humans' ways to make bluffing her way in a simple enough task despite her vallaslin. She remembered the doe-eyed city elf assigned to do the same that had shared her supper with her, telling her the first necessary details of exactly what was planned to happen at the humans' gathering between insisting that Eila tell her everything about the Dalish that there was to know. It struck her that the girl, giddy with sincerity, was likely dead now if all that she was being told was true. But the last moment that Eila truly recalled was falling asleep in one of the human-style beds. She remembered thinking that everything was going to according to plan.

Her plan certainly never included murdering anyone.  

After that, she now realized, it just felt blurry as though all of her memory had been stowed in a cask of ale. Complete incoherence verging on a black-out. But that guard, and these women who circled her now, knew something she didn't.

That somewhere in the span of time she had spent at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, she had fucked everything up.

 

* * *

 

There was a hole in the sky.  

Eila followed further along behind Cassandra, looking up as she went to gape at an unavoidable, frothing, greenish fissure that spat spirits and demons to wreak havoc in the world. They called it the Breach. A result, Cassandra half-explained and half-inquired, of Eila's doing? She knew it couldn't be, but with her memory of the time a sieve of shadows, she didn't know how she had reason to be sure of that. 

After they slayed the demons that crossed their path, Cassandra lead her up the hillside to where a smaller, gem-like tear fluctuated in mid-air, constantly forming and reforming. Soldiers like those who had swarmed around her when she woke, flailed their weapons at the crowd of mindless demons entering the world. The only two that seemed to make any dent in the horde were an elven mage and a dwarf who had more agility with his crossbow than she thought was natural.

She drew the blades she'd gathered along the route. Cassandra hadn't given her water, but she had allowed her blades. She took half a step to mentally adjust for their size and weight as neither was made for an elf to carry, and then threw herself into the fray.

Finally, the rift stopped hemorrhaging enemies for them to face and Eila stood, catching her breath, watching the rift cycle and change shape. Under its influence, she felt a surge pulsate in her palm, a wanting, like those brief moments of physical pull as you lean in for a kiss. It wasn't in her mind, or her mouth, though, it was this thing on her hand. She glanced down at it, reconciling herself as a sudden conduit to a force of nature running through her as she heard the mage cry out, “We must seal it! Now.” And he drew her arm up with his own so that the green could meet the green.

 _Green fire, a thrill, a pain, like the needles, a shock, but then, the body turns over to it, converts it, it hurts it hurts it HURTS it feels good SO GOOD it's nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing_ and then, a cold burn into silence. It went through the whole of her being. She didn't have exact language for the sensation, like being bedded, like being burnt. She feared it happening again, or worse, it never happening again. Eila wondered if the elf who had yanked her hand up to face the rift had felt it run through him, too? 

As she lowered her arm, Eila glanced around at all of them, trying to find something that could steady her against this madness. Nobody said anything at all.

Cassandra was a tough nut, possibly in more ways than one, it seemed, as she'd trusted Eila with two half-blunted daggers right after telling her that she murdered their blessed Divine and blew up an entire ancient temple before falling out of one of these rifts. She looked at back at her, agog.

“You did it.”

The elf and the dwarf were the first souls she'd met since she awoke into this new hell who didn't look at her like she had pissed in their breakfasts. The elf looked, actually, rather pleased that she'd succeeded and said something to that effect. He did not look Dalish, fair enough, but neither did he look unkind. The dwarf had a clever mouth and a crossbow that would have made Athan, her once, perhaps still, potential bondmate, trip over his own feet. Varric, he called himself. There had been maybe a dozen dwarves who had ever crossed the threshold of the Silver Tankard during her time serving there and none of them had carried such a weapon.

It was an idle thought when she inquired if he were with the Chantry. Nearly everyone involved with this thus far seemed to be. She turned and noticed the elf was laughing lightly. He asked her if she were serious. Eila shrugged, meaning no harm. For a brief moment, she felt a warm blush run over her and wondered if the mark was starting to surge again, but she glanced down and saw nothing but her hand with the old, expected scars running across it.  As Varric growled after Cassandra, with whom he had some prior antagonism, the elf introduced himself as Solas.  Eila was no First, but it was clear enough to her that he was a mage of no small power. According to this Varric, it was his magical intervention that had apparently kept her alive after she emerged from whatever happened at the Conclave.  

A few hours of thrashing about in the snow and enduring the glowing wound on her hand, and she still felt like she'd been hit with a falling boulder. None of this was real, or right, but it was not lost on her to be grateful for her life. She turned towards him, “Ma serannas.” He nodded once, a smile playing on his lips before dissipating back into what must be, she guessed, a more comfortable stoicism.

All three of them were very certain about one thing: she needed to return to the Temple and seal the mother rift. It was not far.

She looked around at the barren landscape. There was enough life yet on the trees, and now she had a set of blades. If she needed to slip away, perhaps she could. But with this damned mark cut into her, it was not like to be an easy escape. Being chased by Cassandra and drug back to this spot sounded the entire opposite of delightful. Instead, of course, she could follow them down into the valley and try.

What had the keeper said? You trust the Clan. Everyone else you either learn to trust or you learn not to. For her part, Eila had always thought: _first, last, only, you trust yourself._

 

 

 


End file.
